


Plaisir Sadique

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sadistic Pleasure" - A short smutty work of dubious consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plaisir Sadique

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this contains a vague headcanon reference to another work of fiction, but still functions as standalone smut.

The drug slips between his lips, bitter and dry on the tongue and just as hard to swallow. A hand over his mouth prevents him from spitting it out, spitting out the awful taste it leaves behind as the tiny pill passes through his oesophagus and settles in his stomach. He's blindfolded with a black scarf, has his wrists tied with silk, and is sprawled stark naked on a mattress laid out on a grimy floor. But these are insignificant in the face of that little pill, dissolving safely and out of his reach in a pool of acid.

He is gagged as well. Every word he tries to utter is muffled by the round bit forced between his teeth, as if he's some colt that needs breaking in. The only senses left to him are hearing and touch, but those are subject to the whim of his captor.

They lean down and whisper against his ear. Dark promises of agony and pleasure. He shivers as they kiss his nape. Heat blooms in his gut in response to their errant touches, and he knows that it's begun.

Softly sliding down his skin, warm, dry hands ply the muscles of his back, sweeping down the curve of his spine and up to the mounds of his buttocks. His teeth clench on the bit and his muscles twitch. They repeat the motion in reverse then lean down and gently press kisses up his spine. Feathery and light, like the hands of a craftsman sculpting his work from moist, pliant clay. He is the clay to be moulded, the desire to be shaped. His pleasure will be decided by their actions.

Warmth spreads across his skin the longer their hands linger. Like slowly creeping heat from the rising sun, it encompasses far more than simply the surface: it delves into him, sweeping his nerves to a new, heightened awareness for the roughness of the fabric beneath his stomach and the firmness of those hands on his back. He champs on the bit, saliva now bringing its metallic tang to his tongue as his captor leans their weight upon him and presses him further into the mattress. Their arousal, hanging thick between their thighs at the junction of his buttocks, has never felt hotter.

"Why don't you let me in?" they breathe against his neck, teeth nibbling and gnawing like a tiny rat. His breathing gains a level of harshness as he tips his head aside. But he doesn't respond, and their fingernails turn into claws that dig into his flesh and tear off strips of skin. Burning lines which fuel his pleasure instead of his pain.

The drug has insinuated itself into his system like a parasite, turning cold into heat and apathy to want. His body burns for intimacy and release, the likes of which he could never experience without it. But his detached mind strays ever far, dissociating itself from the sensations of the body. It refuses the other's advances, seeks to close itself off from their touches. An internal war fought silently but earnestly.

His captor reaches between his legs and touches the turgid length which hangs there. A spasm, a frisson - he jerks against them and feels the steamy breath from their chuckle warm his neck. Their hands smooth back the long strands of his hair, curling white locks around their fingers which then suddenly yank his head back.

"Let me hear the timbre of your cries," they whisper. Wrapping a hand around his length, they begin to pump slowly and steadily.

He voices a wholehearted moan, slack-jawed and slavering. Warm sweat and warm blood acts as a lubricant for their skin as his hips grind against theirs, every hair and every pore burning with the absolute need for human company. The lowering of his inhibitions is not all that the drug affects: it strikes the dead spark within him and fans it to an all-consuming flame. Liquid fire slips between his rear cheeks, moistening and preparing him for the inevitable violation of an altar he usually keeps sacred. They release the bit and he twists his head back to meet their lips, hot and moist and every bit as wanting as he is, not cold and bitter like metal. Their tongues twine, they play a short game of domination which he cedes, their sweat and saliva and the beginnings of semen mingling in a tight coupling of human forms.

He's on his knees now. They both are. Upright, he with the more pale skin ingratiating himself shamelessly into the lap of his partner as they kiss, fondle and mark him. Surfacing for air, they brush aside his white, matted locks and sink their teeth into his shoulder. He hisses in pain and annoyance, eyes flickering briefly behind the blindfold as his lust briefly subsides. Kissing the bleeding scar, they cover it with their lips and suckle on it, hand moving away from his groin to smear abdomen and chest with traces of his fluids.

"You're trembling," they murmur, fingers trailing down his sides, smoothing down his thighs and then reversing towards his back. Gently, almost lovingly, they spread him apart. A cold, cold gel-like touch against his overheated skin, like a blast of frigid air, makes him flinch. A single finger slips inside him, worming into the tight crevice. It stretches him painfully, but his discomfort goes unnoticed. A second finger added when the cavern begins to flatten out, and then a third when the pain begins to fade. They warm quickly, surrounded by spasming muscle.

He swallows thickly and leans forward on to his hands to relieve the pressure on his knees. The fingers follow him, delving in, delving out, but it's not enough. They crook their fingers slightly, dragging along the walls until he convulses and moans in pain.

This satisfies them. Removing their soiled fingers, they take their erection in hand. The blunt head nudges against him, thick and round and heavy. It slides in on the scant lubricant of its own semen, filling the anal passage with tight heat until his partner's sack rest against his buttocks. Their lips tug at his ear, nuzzling the short strands at his nape, filling his back with their warmth.

_"Come for me, my prince."_

Rather than bursts of colours, his drug-affected mind sees a swirling void. Dark and endless, pulsating in time with the thud of his closed-off heart. His body jerks with each thrust into his rear, building a steady, heaving primal beat that adds vague arcs of light to the void. He's aware of the increasing harshness of his panting, the points of pleasure that gleam like a dim constellation every time a sweet spot is hit. But visualising it somehow doesn't make it easier for him to lose himself in the sensation. The tightness in his arousal grows unbearable, as if a too-large balloon has been forced into a smaller skin. And yet, though their penetrations tear through his body time and time again with mounting bliss, he cannot find a way to release it.

He closes his eyes behind the strip of cloth that serves as his blindfold. Though his body aches and yearns physically for the man inside him, his thoughts flow elsewhere to a face framed with short, black hair, a strong mouth and nose, and soft, grey eyes.

For a moment he feels the ghostly touch of their hand against his sweat-slicked skin, brushing down, down, down until it wraps firmly around his erection and seems to draw the white liquid from his loins in a rush of pure ecstasy.

He comes with an odd, fluttery gasp. Clenching tightly around his partner, his hips jerk unsteadily in the throes of orgasm, splashing bursts of sticky fluid against the mattress. It doesn't take long for them to do the same and fill his interior with liquid warmth - some of which leaks out and leaves sticky tracks on the backs of his thighs. The other man wraps their arms around his waist as the afterglow of coition settles in, licking the sweat and blood from his back with their tongue.

Though his body cools, the heat lingers.

 

_"Sex without pain is like food without taste." - Marquis de Sade_


End file.
